What’s in a Song?
A Nostalgic Last Word on Nostalgia
For these last few posts, I’ve been talking about popular television series, opining about theme songs, nitpicking over bits of music inserted into plots for effect, hand-waving about the profound hidden meanings of castella cake. That just leaves the big question: Who cares, right? Why do I need to make it all about grand questions of nationalism, politics, and collective identities?
Let’s take that line of argument even further: did the directors, composers, and performers in the pieces I’m talking about even think about these issues? Surely it’s implausible that Ashin Chen 陳信宏 sat down and thought to himself, “You know what this show needs? A remake of a Teresa Teng classic that will subtly nudge listeners towards a more Japan-centric vision of post-martial law Taiwanese identity.” Does the ultra close-up on Qing Qian-Yi’s hand turning on the radio really have any hidden depths to plumb?
If you’re skeptical, you’d be right! These are just theme songs! Ashin Chen probably didn’t have that conversation with himself or anyone else! It’s entirely plausible that the director of A Touch of Green 一把青 just wanted to create a pretty, intimate scene, and so resorted to warm lighting and ultra close-ups as a way to generate that sense of intimacy. The artists and musicians of La grande chaumière violette 紫色大稻埕 probably just made for subjects with good dramatic potential—indeed, the fact that the arts simply provide a narrative backdrop to the series, rather than acting as scenic source material, suggests that the series is not really “about” the arts.
But here’s the thing: the arts don’t happen in a vacuum. What we find moving, what we find sincere, what we find beautiful, who we find beautiful, all of these issues are fundamentally shaped by social forces, forces that are no less powerful for all that they’re usually invisible. Sometimes, in moments of extraordinary societal change—think the Civil Rights movement, the Gay Rights movement, Black Lives Matter—we become aware of these social forces, and our attention is turned sharply to the forces that shape whose stories get told, how they get told, and by whom—we not only see Jean Hagen’s Lina Lamont, we also see Debbie Reynold’s Kathy Selden; we not only see the Wizard of Oz, we also see the man behind the curtain. But most of the time, after a lifetime of being socialization, we are willing to suspend disbelief and accept Violetta’s terminal tuberculosity, Brad Pitt’s bronzed and buffed physique, or Rose’s decision not to make some space on the door for Jack as naturally, unproblematically beautiful. We don’t question it. (Well, people still debate whether or not there was space on the door for Jack … )
Most importantly, these “natural” ideas about beauty and the makings of emotionally powerful stories are not merely the result of powerful social forces, they also talk back to those social forces. La Traviata’s Violetta may be the victim of narrowly bounded cultural expectations of feminine virtue, but in its time, the role of the glamorous courtesan with a heart of gold also made a statement about what it means to be a “moral” person. Brad Pitt did not spring fully waxed from the mind of director David Fincher, but iconic films like Fight Club also helped shift standards of masculinity for an entire generation of moviegoers. And Rose’s and Jack’s decision to part at sea is not only a tear-jerker of a moment, it reinforces male imaginings of chivalrous self-sacrifice for damsels in distress.
This is what I mean when I talk about the “discussions” and “debates” that are played out about national identity in Light the Night, A Touch of Green, and La grande chaumière violette. On the one hand, each of these series makes use of pre-existing cultural materials—music, novels, the narrative norms of television series, etc.—to engage an audience in a largely capitalist media marketplace. On the other hand, each makes selective use of these materials, casting particular eras, places, and people as desirable representatives of national identity. For Light the Night and La grande chaumière, the object of national desire that emerges is Taiwan’s Japanese cultural patrimony. For A Touch of Green, it is an opposing vision of pre-Civil War China.
In each case, subtle narrative claims—easy to overlook or to interrogate from an intellectual standpoint—are not enough. But the power of multimedia like film and television is that they can move past purely narrative claims, relying on the combination of multimedia elements—word, image, and music—to form powerful emotional bonds with audiences. By heightening the audience’s emotional response, directors increase the likelihood of not just acceptance, but also devotion to the objects of desire in their productions.
In each of the shows I’ve talked about over these last few weeks, nostalgia provides that emotional connection. And in each case, music—either as object or as subject—plays a critical role in heightening each show’s nostalgic effect. Each of these shows is fictional, and well known as such. Thus, these shows don’t really make an attempt to redefine what people know about particular historical eras. But in their reliance on nostalgia and emotion, these shows do push audiences to reevaluate what they feel about particular historical eras. And in the contest over the national imagination, what we feel is almost always more important than what we know.
Thanks for Listening!
If you’ve made it this far … you are a glutton for punishment! The next few weeks will be less theoretical (hopefully …), and hopefully there’s something for everyone! I’ll be talking about the performance of a Bruckner Symphony at Taiwan’s National Concert Hall, a documentary about a Chinese drag queen that I saw recently at the Taipei Film Festival, and the Spotify playlist at a local bar that divides its line of house-specialty, tea-infused drinks into categories like “1990 Memory,” “Ocean,” “Faith,” and (bracingly) “Colonialism.” So if any of that sounds like it could be fun, be sure to stay tuned!